These Things That Go Bump in the Night
by lil-anonymous-girl
Summary: It's the end. Or the beginning. Or… f*ck, Danny doesn't know. What he *does* know is that people are trying to *eat* him and he feels totally justified in reasoning that to take some sort of top priority. Stupid zombie apocalypses.
1. Chapter 1

Title: These Things That Go Bump in the Night  
Fandom: Hawaii Five-0  
Pairing: Steve/Danno  
Beta: samjohnsson (who made anything good, great, and anything great, _awesome) _and amycoolz (who boosted my ego and confidence like _woah_)  
Summary: It's the end. Or the beginning. Or… f*ck, Danny doesn't know. What he *does* know is that people are trying to *eat* him and he feels totally justified in reasoning that to take some sort of top priority.  
Author's note: I'd tell you I'm sorry but then I'd be lying, which, you know, is bad and uh… stuff. My only regret, is that I missed Halloween. Also, timeline wise this **takes place before episode 1x06**.

Disclaimer: If I owned Hawaii Five-0, you'd never see any Hawaii Five-0 fanfiction by me on the internet. Probably.

* * *

Mayhem. Absolute mayhem. That's what Danny Williams wakes to on Sunday, October 14 but he doesn't know it, not right away.

It's three in the morning when he jerks awake, his phone ringing obnoxiously loud on the bedside table. Blindly, he gropes at the varnished oak surface, lifting and patting until his flesh hits the cool plastic of his cell. Squinting at the screen, he'd like to say he's surprised when it reads **Steve McGarrett** but then… well then, he'd be lying. He hits "ignore" because it's _three in the fucking morning_ on a _Sunday _and rolls over, phone still in hand.

He's just starting to drift back into his blissfully McGarrett free dreams when the phone predictably rings again.

"God dammit," he grumbles into his pillow. He considers throwing the offending object across the room but he needs his phone so that would be a bad idea. Also, that won't actually stop the ringing. "Dammit," he repeats because if his brain cells are functioning enough to recognize these facts, he's _way_ too awake. He sighs and goes with plan B—he stuffs the phone under his pillow and prays he can sleep through the muffled sounds. It takes a few minutes, but eventually the noise stops. His relief at this is short lived however, because it starts up again soon after.

Growling, he grabs the damn thing and jabs at the "answer" button. "_What_," he greets irritably.

"Danno!" Steve shouts. Danny frowns and pulls the phone away from his ear. "Danno," Steve says again, quieter. "Where _are_ you?"

"What do you mean 'where am I?'" Danny replies concernedly as he sits up because- and it's probably his sleep deprived brain misinterpreting something here but nonetheless- Steve sounds worried and more than a little frantic. "I'm at _home_. It's three in the fucking morning you _ass_ and we have work tomorrow, meaning I should sleep now because I've got another five adrenaline filled days before the next chance. Where _else_ would I be?"

"'Home?' What the hell are you—no, that doesn't matter. Danno, listen to me- _stay where you are_. Do you understand me? Just _stay_ there. I'll be there as soon as I-"

"'Stay?' What do you mean _stay_? What am I, a dog? Just what the hell is going—wait," Danny says when something catches his attention. "Look, can I call you back? I think… I think there's someone outside of my door."

"'Someone outside of your door'…? Danno, don't open it!" Steve yells and Danny has had just about enough of this.

"Steve, it is _three in the morning_, you're shouting, and there's someone _outside_," he replies, then frowns. "Actually, I think I hear… moaning? Steve, I think there might be some kind of emergency going on…"

"Danno, just _listen to me-_"

"No, _you_ listen. So far you've done a stunning job of not telling me what the hell is going on, which, hey, let's face it- between us, that's pretty status quo. In any case, I'm getting pretty fucking sick of it because we are _partners_ and partners tell each other things so I'm just going to go see what this person needs and then call you back. While that is going on I suggest you utilize the time to come up with a damn good explanation before just ordering me around because, did I mention? It's _three in the fucking morning_." With a huff, Danny ends the call and tosses the phone aside, grunting as he uses his cane to lever himself up towards the door.

* * *

Elsewhere, Steve is staring at his phone, willing the sound of the dial tone to be replaced by Danny's voice and thinking shit, shit, _shit_.

* * *

The person—a woman, from what Danny can tell, but then, it's pretty dark—has moved from just outside his door to his front yard. Her back is to Danny and she's moaning, which is a pretty good indicator that something's wrong, but he can't tell where she's been hurt.

"Ma'am?" he questions softly. No answer. "Ma'am, my name is Danny Williams. I'm a detective. Are you in need of any assistance?" There's still no answer but the moaning stops temporarily and he can tell she's begun to shuffle towards him. "That's right," he encourages soothingly, "just step towards me-" Danny stops talking abruptly. The woman (and it is a woman if the floral print skirt and long hair are anything to go by,) has stepped into a patch of moonlight and God, Danny thinks, this is _bad_.

There's blood running down the front of her shirt— and Danny is not a paramedic but he's pretty sure there shouldn't be that much blood _outside of her body_— and sweet Jesus, are those bite marks on her arms? Her skin is so _pale_—it's the light Danny tells himself, it has to be because _nothing human is that_ _chalky white_—and her eyes are just... God, they're unfocused and blank and is it just him or do they look cloudy?

* * *

A corpse, he'll tell Steve later. She looked like a walking corpse. Really, Steve will reply dryly. Can't imagine why.

* * *

She's moaning again, arms outstretched towards him as she nears. "Ma'am," he says calmly, like he's trained to be in these kinds of situations. "This looks serious; I really don't think you should be moving." She doesn't listen and just continues her unsteady walk towards him, pace picking up the closer she gets. "…Or you could just keep coming towards me and strain yourself unnecessarily, which, by the way is just increasing your likelihood of internal damage and, you know, death." She doesn't stop. Danny sighs and rubs his forehead. "Alright, ma'am, you are clearly prepared to do your own thing here and, hopefully, to deal with the consequences of your actions. You're a US citizen, so that's your right. But, because I'm a decent human being, I'm just going to go ahead and call emergency services anyway. Just in case."

He goes back inside- to pick up the phone from where he'd tossed it- leaving the front door wide open. The phone screen reads **2 new voicemails** but he ignores them in favour of dialling 9-1-1. He gets the busy tone. "What the…?" He hangs up and then redials. Same thing. "Maybe the lines are down?" There's a moan and when he looks up, the woman's silhouette is standing in the door frame.

"I'm sorry," he apologizes, apparently unperturbed. "I think there must be something going on—I can't contact the emergency services. It looks like I'll have to drive you— woah!" he yells when she suddenly lunges at him. She latches onto his left arm—_cold,_ he thinks, _her hands are cold_- and brings it to her mouth. Quickly, Danny breaks her hold and shoves her back roughly because excessive force or no, she just tried to _bite _him. She stumbles back but is undeterred—she comes at him again.

"Ma'am," he tries, "I think you may be confused or possibly in a state of mind where you're having difficulty differentiating between friend and foe or maybe even mentally deranged but I need you to _stop_." She doesn't. "Oh, boy," Danny says and sidesteps. The woman's momentum carries her past him and she crashes rather forcefully into his wall. She crumples and stills.

Wincing, he approaches hesitantly. "Ma'am?" he asks, nudging her prone form with the rubber end of his cane. No response. Worried, he crouches next to her, fingers enclosing around her wrist as he searches for a pulse. (_'Cold,'_ he thinks again, _'why is her skin so fucking _cold?_'_) He panics when he doesn't find one. "Ma'am!" he repeats, pressing his index and middle fingers to her neck. Nothing. "Shit."

He sits with his back against his fold out couch and wonders what the hell just happened. "Okay Danno, let's recap. Steve called with his panties in a bunch, there was a severely injured civilian woman who attacked you and is now lying dead in your apartment due to unknown—holy fuck!" Dead people, Danny knows, do not move. He knows this. So then why, he wonders, is there a dead woman _crawling towards him_?

She pounces on him and thank God for his reflexes because his hands on her shoulders are the only things preventing her from _chewing on his face_. "Woah, woah, _woah!_" he shouts as she snarls and bites the air in front of him. He pushes at her but he can't get the force he needs to shove her off from the way he's sitting. When she turns her head, he thinks he might feel the scrape of teeth against his skin as he pulls his arm away and punches her in the face. Scrambling, he manages to get his feet beneath him and he dives for the handgun he slipped into the bedside table drawer the night before. Behind him, the woman is climbing to her feet.

"Ma'am, if you do not desist your actions _right this minute_ I'll have to resort to taking violent action," Danny warns and _Jesus,_ _is he trying to reason with a dead person_? He turns off the safety when the woman continues towards him doggedly. The first shot hits her in the leg and _oh dear Lord _all she does is stagger before carrying on as if nothing happened. His second shot is to her chest, the bullet tearing into her heart and dropping her like a stone.

"Crap," he says, sinking onto the couch. His adrenaline is pumping and the sound of his heart roars in his ears. "What the hell was that?"

Then there's a groan to his right and he watches disbelievingly as the supposedly dead woman drags herself towards him, leaving a bloody streak on the floor behind her.

"Well," Danny tells no one in particular, bringing his pistol back up. "Fuck."

And then he shoots her in the head.

* * *

**Cruise ship crashes into Waimea Bay  
**_Honolulu Tribute_, October 11, 2010

_HONOLULU_—A group of locals got quite the scare this morning when a Hornblower cruise ship drove itself right onto the shore of Waimea Bay. Furthermore, the hybrid ship, a model introduced into continuous service in 2009, held the corpses of at least 110 passengers, all speculated to be civilians. Names are to be released at a later date once the bodies have been identified.

There is no known time of death for the passengers as well as no suspected cause. The ship, which has been estimated to have been sailing for approximately nine days, has passengers which indicate a time of death as far back as eight days ago in addition to passengers which could not have died more than an hour ago.

Disturbingly, there were about 40 people, while in a less decomposed state, which appeared to be partially eaten. The deceased status of all passengers combined with the bite marks found on the decayed, has led to the theory that a mass murder involving cannibalism took place. Investigators are bringing the corpses back to a laboratory in Honolulu in hopes that autopsies will help to identify the cause of death.

Even more peculiar was the ship's destination. Undoubtedly, the ship was headed to Hawaii though the reason why is an answer that will hopefully be revealed soon. Suspicions have been raised that this incident may be related to the sudden loss of communication from the mainland.

Honolulu mayor Louis Hekekia insists that the ship and the silence from the mainland are two mutually exclusive events. He assures that the unexpected quiet, which has continued for ten days and followed immediately after an alarming distress call, is most likely nothing more than an elaborate and uncalled for hoax in the name of the approaching Halloween holiday…

* * *

Zombies. Fucking _zombies_. Danny drops his head into his hands (after he'd firmly closed the front door because, damn it, he needed a moment where nothing was trying to eat him to sort this shit out) and moans out a sorrowful, "Seriously? Why is this my _life_?"

Don't get him wrong—he's not above freaking out. In fact, he's pretty sure the natural response is to freak out, just a little. But the thing is, with Danny at least, right behind that instinct to panic is ten years of _keep calm_ and _deep breaths, that's right: in, out, repeat_ and _damn it Williams! If you want to know what's going on then you have to stop and look at the facts, man. You're a detective, right? So look at the facts_ that are keeping that instinct at bay.

So Danny breathes, deep breaths, steady and sure, in and out, and remembers that he told Steve once that this is all he has and he needs it. That he wants to do what he's good at and he wants to be reminded that he's good at what he does and that's _true _so zombie apocalypse be damned, this won't be enough to break him.

"Facts, Danny," he mumbles into his hands. "Let's start with those facts." He can't write them down because he doesn't dare turn on the lights and while the waning moonlight filtering in makes for some beautifully poetic sounding imagery its absolute hell on his eyesight. That's okay—mental lists will work just fine.

The Facts

- Steve called and he wanted to Danny to stay where he was. He may or may not have sounded frantic  
- A civilian woman without a pulse tried to bite him  
- She continued to attack even after a shot to her leg and more importantly, her _heart  
- _She stopped attacking/moving after he'd shot her in the head

Technically, there isn't any evidence to support his the-civilian-was-a-zombie hypothesis or his assumption that the zombie apocalypse managed to sneak up on him. Technically, there's a possibility that she had a pulse and he somehow missed it meaning there's actually a possibility that she wasn't dead when he shot at her those first two times. Technically, he doesn't know if she would've eaten him or not because that wasn't really something he'd been keen on finding out. Technically.

But then, Danny's also sure that he doesn't really care about those technicalities because no matter how he does the math he keeps coming up with seven. Which is bad. Seriously bad. Seven, after all, is the number that tops his Numbers that Should Never Be Messed With List because everybody knows that the fucker ate nine which makes it some sort of scary number cannibal. (Coincidentally, on his Top Ten Ways the World Might End List, seven is the one where he listed 'via zombie apocalypse'.)

The point is that there are, apparently, zombies or zombie-like creatures, which have invaded Honolulu.

Damn it all. This type of shit never happened back in Jersey. He was adding this to his "Reasons Why Jersey is, and Forever will be, Better than Hawaii" list.

* * *

**KITV NEWS**

**Epidemic in Honolulu? Tips on preventing viruses  
**Aired October 12, 2010 – 07:00 HST

THIS IS A RUSH TRANSCRIPT. THIS COPY MAY NOT BE IN ITS FINAL FORM AND MAY BE UPDATED.

JAMES PALAKIKO, KITV ANCHOR: All right, thanks Kahele.

KAHELE ʻŌPŪNUI: Not a problem, James.

PALAKIKO: Alright, so the time is seven on the dot, and for those of you just joining us, we have Dr. Sabrina Keahi here to discuss the sudden onslaught of sniffles and fevers Honolulu appears to have been hit with.

Good morning Dr. Keahi.

SABRINA KEAHI, MD: Good morning James.

PALAKIKO: So what are your thoughts on this sudden epidemic?

KEAHI: Well James, it came unusually fast and hard but it looks like Honolulu's been hit with the inevitable cold and flu season. Nothing to worry about, I assure you. For this time of year, it's completely normal.

PALAKIKO: So what do we do to prevent this? If I'm feeling a little blue can I just go to the doctor's and get the usual "take two of these and call me in the morning" spiel or what?

KEAHI: Unfortunately it doesn't work like that. Both the common cold, a nuisance to all human kind, and the flu, which brings with it an entirely different league of headaches, are viruses. Because of this, they, quite unfortunately, can't be fought by regular anti-bacterial means. So instead, precautions should be taken to prevent getting them in the first place. Parents especially, should reinforce these means so that their little ghoul or gremlin won't be in bed for that special day of the year!

Wash your hands often. I simply cannot stress this enough. People touch things and that's totally fine but always remember that if you have to touch something- be it the door handle, a keyboard, or money—chances are that somebody else had to touch it too. You can't help the germs lingering on there but washing your hands will keep the viruses on them to a minimum.

PALAKIKO: Anything else?

KEAHI: Another thing is to avoid touching your face. Those germs you didn't bother washing off? Guess where they are now. No sense in encouraging infection by bringing bacteria closer to the areas where they can actually get _inside_ your body.

Finally, try to maintain a healthy lifestyle. Eating and sleeping right as well as physical exercise keeps a healthy immune system. Your immune system will take care of the viruses that manage to slip into your body—provided you keep yours strong. In short, get your eight hours, drink a V8, run after your bus in the morning and you'll be good.

PALAKIKO: Well that seems easy enough.

KEAHI: I know right? Just remember that these are only preventative measures and it's still entirely possible for you to get sick. In fact, health clinics are reporting a sudden onslaught of people, starting from yesterday afternoon and continuing well into today, complaining of fever, chills, slight dementia, vomiting, and acute pain in the joints.

If you happen experience any of these symptoms please be sure to visit your local doctor.

PALAKIKO: I thought the cold and flu couldn't be countered with antibiotics?

KEAHI: They can't but your local doctor can likely prescribe or recommend something to help speed recovery such as an immune system booster or a mild sedative to ensure you get proper rest. For the flu, flu-shot vaccinations would be helpful, though if you're already showing symptoms they won't be of much use. If you're healthy though, and want to take preventative measures, you'll want to look into getting a shot.

PALAKIKO: Sounds good. Thanks for those tips doctor!

We'll take a break and when we get back, Kevin Hale will have the weather.

* * *

Steve told him to stay where he was. Danny is unsure if he'll actually be able to follow that command.

It's not that he's feeling particularly rebellious. He isn't. It's just that there is a very nicely composed list of reasons as to why he _shouldn't_ stay here that's longer than the list of why he _should_.

Reasons to Leave

- There's a dead woman who tried to eat him in his apartment  
- Danny was not fighting through the zombie apocalypse with just a pistol. Just… no  
- He needed more information. Is this actually a zombie apocalypse or was he just lucky enough to be attacked by the one zombie on the entire freaking planet?  
- There's a dead woman who tried to eat him in his apartment

Reasons to Stay

- Steve is coming to get him  
- He can't drive well because of his stupid knee  
- Walking to wherever and fighting off zombies is going to suck because of his stupid knee  
- He doesn't know how many more zombies are out there  
- If there _are_ more, he'll probably need more than twelve more rounds and an extra magazine to fight them off

Okay so he lied. Turns out, the list of reasons as to why he _shouldn't_ stay is shorter than he thought it would be.

Sighing, Danny edges a little to the left on the couch, putting a little more distance between him and the corpse.

'_Steve better get here really fucking soon_,' he thinks while he absently rubs at his knee.

* * *

**NOT THE FLU—Honolulu struck by mysterious virus  
**_Honolulu Tribute_, October 13, 2010

_HONOLULU_—After being misdiagnosed as the regular flu, a mysterious virus has claimed its first victim in Louis Kalani, a twenty-three year old local who just days ago was present when a Hornblower cruise ship drove onto Waimea Bay shore with four others. According to family and friends he fell ill on the evening of October 11 with a fever, chills, and acute pain in the joints, symptoms not uncommon to the flu. However, eight hours later, the fever increased and Kalani experienced a loss of muscle coordination. By yesterday evening, he fell into a coma. Kalani passed away this morning.

The virus of unknown origin and function is currently the twenty-sixth such virus to be studied by the Centers for Disease Control. Following the standard naming process, where unknown viruses are tagged with an alphabetic code, scientists have named it the Z-virus. If you or anyone you know are experiencing any flu-like symptoms, officials ask that you report to your nearest hospital and prepare for quarantine until an accurate diagnosis can be determined…

* * *

Danny tenses when the doorknob rattles. '_Could be Steve_,' his mind supplies helpfully. '_…Or it could be a zombie. Can zombies open doors?_' He stands as quietly as he can, pistol in one hand and eyes trained on the door. He's about to step towards it when the person (_God, please let it be a living one this time_) swings it open.

Standing in the doorway is none other than Steve McGarrett.

_Thank God, thank God, thank God, thank God_. "So you _can_ open doors without blowing them up first," Danny greets with a relieved grin. For his part, Steve simply glances at Danny before stepping in silently and closing the door with a soft click. He doesn't turn around. "Steve? What's wrong? Oh God, you're actually a zombie aren't you. I didn't even _think_ it could happen to you but… wait. Mother—this means they can open doo-"

"Danno," Steve interrupts, turning around.

"…Steve?"

"_Please_ be quiet."

He can't help it. He really can't. The zombie apocalypse won't break Danny Williams if he has anything to say about it but if anyone asks, he certainly won't deny the _relief_ and _joy_ and _contentment_ he'd experienced the minute Steve had stepped into his shithole apartment. It makes him comfortable enough that he doesn't hesitate to give a teasing whistle and a muttered, "And a good morning to you too, sunshine." Steve snorts and walks until he's right in front of Danny.

"Honolulu's been overrun by dead cannibals and you're concerned about my lack of _social niceties_?" Steve squints down at him. "And… is that a tie?"

"Honolulu's been overrun by dead cannibals and you're concerned about _how I dress_?" Danny counters.

"Crazy mainlander."

"Arrogant jackass."

"Sensitive bastard."

"Whiny bitch."

"I'm glad you're alright," Steve admits, patting Danny's shoulder awkwardly.

Danny rolls his eyes. He can feel the way Steve's hand is trembling through his shirt. Can tell that Steve's touches are lingering a little too long. Can hear all of the silent '_thank whatever deity still listening, you're still alive' _messages that Steve isn't saying aloud because they're painted all over his face. "Emotionally constipated idiot."

"Wait a min-" Steve starts to say but gets cut off when Danny pulls him into a rough hug.

"I'm glad you're alright too, you insane fucker," he says into Steve's shirt. Hesitantly, Steve wraps his arms around Danny and when the other man doesn't pull away, tightens his hold, resting his chin on the top of Danny's head.

They stay like that, with only the front door of Danny's shitty apartment separating them from the broken moans and panicked screams and the rest of the burning world, until they can't afford to. Then, in a wayward effort to flip the zombie apocalypse the bird or maybe, just because they want to, they hold each other a little longer.

* * *

"So," Danny says eventually, after the moment's passed and Steve's stopped trembling minutely and Danny doesn't have to tell himself to just _breathe_.

"So," Steve repeats.

"I fucking hate zombies," Danny grumbles, scowling at the woman's corpse.

"Yeah?" Steve asks absently, poking her with the end of an aluminum bat he'd picked up God knows where. "Me too." A pause. "I told you not to open the door."

Danny turns his scowl on Steve. "Oh shut up. You could have _said_ something about the whole zombie thing."

"Like what? 'Danno, this is going to sound a _little bit _crazy but there are dead people walking around trying to eat the non-dead ones. They're kind of succeeding.'"

Danny shrugs. "Sure."

"You would have believed that?" he asked with a raised eyebrow.

Danny levels him with an '_are you dumb_?' look. "They're zombies, Steve. Who jokes about zombies?"

Steve blinks. "How the hell have you lived this long?"

"Dashing good looks, a biting intelligence, and just a pinch of luck," he replies automatically.

"No really," Steve says. "How have you lived this long?"

"Oh, fuck you," Danny frowns.

"Now's not the best time. Ask again when the world's not ending," Steve answers cheekily.

"I hate you," Danny says, dropping down onto the couch.

"Really?" Steve prods, sitting down right beside him.

"Well… no," he confesses. "But if I could…"

"You still wouldn't hate me. I'm too awesome for hating." Danny groans and drops his head onto Steve's shoulder.

"We need to get out of here," he mumbles into Steve's shirt sleeve.

"Yeah," Steve nods.

"You have a plan?" he asks.

Danny's eyes are closed but he can feel Steve's other arm move when he raises his shoulder in a one-armed shrug. "Try not to die."

Danny sighs. "I really should have known."

"You really should have," Steve agrees. "You good to go?" Danny thinks about it. He has a torn ACL, twenty-seven bullets for a pistol, possibly half the population of Honolulu to fight off with it, and one Steve McGarrett.

Fuck it, this is as close to ready as he's going to get. "Yeah. Let's roll."

* * *

_tbc..._


	2. Chapter 2

Beta: The ever patient **samjohnsson**, who made sure that everyone else could understand what I was trying to tell them.  
Author's notes: So, show of hands: how many people thought I was just going to drop this fic and never, ever update again? _Looks at raised hands._ For shame! Would I do that to you? (Actually, I am _definitely_ the type of person who would, but don't worry—this fic is not in any danger of being dropped anytime soon.)

**Edit: Alright-y peeps, if I may clarify: I am a proud Canadian citizen and while not excessively patriotic, the jokes about Canada were not made with malicious intent. **

Disclaimer: Between now and last chapter I failed to get the rights to Hawaii Five-0. Damn. Thus, this is just me borrowing the characters and putting them through a zombie apocalypse because I thought it would be fun. \o/

* * *

The plan is to "try not to die". Well, that's Steve plan. In Danny's opinion, it's really more of a goal. A good… no, a _great_ one, that Danny can totally get behind due to a long term personal investment in his continued existence, sure, but just a goal nonetheless.

Which means it's just a _tiny _bit too general for Danny's tastes.

But then, Danny supposes, that's where he comes in. Because when Steve has a goal in mind, it usually involves a lot of things; running, the gleeful breaking of many, many rules, interrogation methods which more often than not ignore any and all ethical repercussions. There's also usually a demonstration of Steve's elite Navy SEAL skills, (though Danny suspects it has less to do with the skills and more that Steve may or may not have a masochism kink,) pitifully disguised as a one-on-one battle with a trained and/or armed opponent (which, of course, frequently ends with Steve sporting far too many injuries). Danny's job, then, is to balance that out. Usually he does this with erratic hand motions, the listing off of (in a raised tone that may or may not be recognized by some as a "shout") the many procedures and policies that Steve has so generously forsaken, and, most importantly, making sure that the various bodyguards and/or henchmen and/or partners that Steve's opponent undoubtedly has with them will not (cannot, because Danny got to them before they could get to Steve,) interfere with Steve's moment of badassery.

Kind of nice to know that backing up Steve McGarrett was a profession still needed in the zombie apocalypse era. And his mother had wanted him to be a lawyer. _Ha_.

The point is that Steve's got a goal but it's Danny who Steve trusts to take care of the little things, Danny who covers Steve's three, six, and nine o'clock when the man goes charging in, Danny who's responsible for Steve because the Navy went and taught Steve to have this thing about playing the fucking hero which gives him this irritating compulsion to try and do everything himself while neglecting his own safety.

Steve's just lucky that Danny is really freaking awesome at his job because it turns out that surviving a zombie apocalypse?

It's really fucking hard.

* * *

The thing is, they'll need food.

So far, the gas and the water are still running but if this is an emergency (and yeah, Danny's betting that this is an emergency of epic proportions), then he's not willing to put much faith in them staying on for much longer. Then, when the power is cut and the fridges go warm, food supplies are going to go bad fast.

He knows this isn't an appropriate moment to remind Steve that pretty soon, he's going to have to eat preserved food, like, ninety percent of the time, all year round, but oh, the sweet, sweet temptation. Then again, and Danny turns a little green at the thought, the other ten percent can be spent eating fresh, home grown fruits—like pineapple. A pineapple slice he can handle, but pineapple as a staple food? When (not if, _when_) this whole zombie apocalypse thing blows over, he's going to the nearest standing church and having a nice, long, relatively one-sided conversation with God about the great injustice that is his life.

They'll need water.

Danny's Aunt Susan went through a phase where she called herself an "environment preservationist". Basically, what that translated to was a ban on chips in her presence, ("They fill those things with nitrogen, Danny-boy. Did you know that? Every time you open one of those crinkly containers of fried potato goodness, you kill our atmosphere, just a little. Remember that."), a honed skill in the art of recycling, ("Daniel Williams, _please_ tell me that I _did not_ just witness you throwing that newspaper into a garbage can. It's called _recycling_. Try it out sometime. Maybe you'll manage to save one tree for every thousand you just got cut down because you're sending recyclable material to the landfill.), and a surplus on the knowledge of water ("Laugh all you want Danny, but you have to be nice to Canadians because when fresh water gets in high demand, guess who we'll be turning to. Well, that or we should maybe prepare to take them over. Not like it'll be _that_ hard. Do they even have a military? Don't give me that look—I'm just joking. Kind of.")

Admittedly, all he remembers about the last concept is something about aquifers, pollution and acid rain, and that the biggest reservoir of water that humans have access to comes in the form of groundwater while the smallest is surface water. It's important though, that last little tidbit of knowledge, because it means that he knows that all the water that comes gushing out of the taps, the fountains, the showers, it's being pumped up from underground. Best case scenario, the water will stay running. In the worst case scenario—and yes, this is the one Danny's preparing for because he's a total Boy Scout that way—Steve and he are going to need to become intimate with the locations of the fresh water streams running through Oahu.

See, this is why islands are so fucking useless. Surrounded on all sides by water and not a drop of it suitable to drink. What kind of death is that to brag about in the afterlife? '_Hi, my name is Danny Williams. I died of thirst while surrounded by water.'_ Great.

They'll need weapons.

Okay, no, they don't _need _weapons. Danny's aware of the weight of his pistol in his holster and Steve keeps a hand wrapped around the handle of his bloodied aluminum bat like it's been crazy-glued there. It's just… aside from hand-to-hand, that's it, and that makes Danny rationally concerned.

From what Danny understands, zombies feel no pain, no fear, no muscle fatigue and only stay down when they're brain's too damaged to tell them to stand up again. Danny has a bad leg, a low chance of getting in a headshot with his gun if he's trying to hit something outside of point blank range, and what essentially amounts to twenty-seven bullets. Steve's got an aluminum bat and both Danny and himself to defend with it. If Steve even _suggests_ going in hot with their guns (or in this case, gun and bat) up, Danny is going to beat him unconscious with his shoe and then spend precious moments mourning his partner's apparent lack of self preservation.

So basically, strictly speaking, no, they don't need weapons… but Danny sure as hell _wants_ more of them.

They need shelter.

And this, here, is the big one. From what Danny can tell, there are two ways of approaching this. One: bunker down somewhere you consider safe and wait out the infection; or two: travel until you find somewhere worth bunkering down in.

Given that they're still in his shithole apartment, it's not so much a choice between the two options and more that there's only one option for them to go with—they'll go with option two. He just doesn't know _where_ they'll be travelling to because, in his opinion, there wasn't anywhere safe per se; just somewhere a little less dangerous than everywhere else.

Not that he's complaining of course—it's the end of the world. He'll take what he can get.

Just… where the hell is that?

* * *

"Okay, I'm going to ask one more time because this seems really, vitally, difference-between-survival-and-being-today's-lunch-special important. We're going _where_?" Danny inquires as he and Steve prowl around the apartment in search of useful items.

"Headquarters," Steve grunts back.

"Headquarters," Danny repeats as he watches Steve yanks open a cupboard and pulls out a box of granola bars.

"Yeah," Steve confirms as he grabs the flashlight and extra batteries from the drawer below it.

"You mean the one with lots of fragile glass doors and fancy computer equipment that won't be much help once the power shuts off? _That_ headquarters?" Danny asks as he throws in a roll of duck tape to the little pile Steve's started in the middle of the room.

"I mean the one that has a weapons locker with a couple of assault rifles-" he says, voice fading as he leaves to recover anything useful from the medicine cabinet in the bathroom.

"You want to go all the way to headquarters for a couple of _assault rifles_?" Danny questions incredulously, pausing momentarily.

"I didn't finish," Steve answers irritably, returning with medical gauze and a bottle of Tylenol in hand. "You never let me finish."

"You'll have to forgive me," Danny says exasperatedly, finger jabbing in Steve's general direction, "because I have this thing where I still want to be alive by the end of whatever hare-brained scheme you're trying to propose so _excuse me _for pointing out the parts in your plan liable to get us _killed_."

"See that's your problem Danno," Steve says. "A total lack of faith. Believe it or not I _have_ done this once or twice before."

"You're saying you've had to survive on an island infested with non-living, cannibalistic, people-like organisms before?"

"Well, maybe not that _exactly_. Though there was that one island in the south…"

"Seriously?"

"Ah, but I'm not supposed to tell you about that because I'm pretty sure that mission is still considered classified."

Danny snorts. "Of _course_ it is."

"That's not the point," Steve deflects.

"You had a point?"

"The point is that _we_," and here Steve pauses to point at Danny and then himself, "are going to Five-0 headquarters."

"Yeah… no. I'm not seeing where exactly that got slipped into the conversation."

"And you call yourself a detective."

"Yes, actually, I do. You know why? It's because I'm _great _at detecting things. For example, right now I am _detecting_ a surplus of _insanity_ being coupled with the self preservation of a _lemming_. I am also _detecting_ a sudden urge to beat you unconscious with my shoe. Finally, I _detect_ that these two events are _not unrelated _in the least!"

"Did you just compare me to a suicidal gerbil?"

"Is that honestly the part you have a problem with?"

"Because if you _are_, I'd just like to point out that jumping off a cliff once or twice does not make me lemming-like."

"There are… so many parts of that sentence I want to yell at you for that I have been momentarily stunned into saying things at an acceptable decibel level."

Steve shrugs. "I try. Is this everything?" he asks, gesturing towards the little pile.

"Probably," he acknowledges and watches as Steve starts shoving things into a backpack he picked up somewhere. "Oh, and Steve? I just want you to know, that if this plan of yours leads me in any way, shape, or form towards jumping off a cliff, I'm going to _push_ you off before you get the chance to leap off of your own free will."

"No worries," Steve assures, shouldering the bag. "There's no cliffs in the foreseeable future; just the Five-0 headquarters."

"Right, the headquarters," Danny repeats. "You're speaking, of course, about the one with glass doors, fancy computer equipment, and a weapons locker with a couple of assault rifles."

"Actually Danno, I'm speaking about the one where we're expected to rendezvous at with a certain Kono Kalakaua and Chin Ho Kelly so that we can figure out where we need to be heading to get to evac."

Danny glares. "You couldn't have just said that in the first place?"

Steve looks at him in mock surprise. "Why detective! Do forgive me—it seems my memory's going because as _I_ recall, I _did_ try to tell you but then _somebody_ rather rudely wouldn't let me—ow!"

Danny feels totally justified in punching Steve in the arm. Steve wonders if it's worth it to point out the irony of the situation.

(When he decides that, in fact, it is, Danny whacks him in the shin with his cane.)

* * *

They're walking to headquarters.

Initially, there hadn't been a problem; from Danny's place to the beginning of downtown, they'd been able to use Steve's truck with little difficulty. (_He and Steve riding, for once, in total silence. Steve focussing entirely too hard on the road and Danny studiously ignoring the bloody handprints against the glass windows, the static on the radio that doesn't provide answers, and most importantly, how the people, if one can still call them that, are much closer than they appear according to the message on the side-view mirror, as they chase after the automobile._) It's at the intersection between Queen and Kamakee Street where the road became too congested for them to follow via vehicle.

'_It's like a movie_,' Danny notes absently. '_All those vehicles strewn haphazardly about, doors ajar and belongings left behind when their owners took to the street and ran._'

"We're going to have to walk," Steve says aloud and Danny flinches from the sudden break in the silence.

"Yeah," he agrees while he watches a man stumble about aimlessly further down the street. He can see more of them behind him, in the dim light the sun brings with it as it rises over the horizon, their awkward gait making them easy to pick out as they move back and forth between the abandoned cars.

Steve doesn't glance at Danny's knee but he can tell he's thinking about it. "I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it," Danny replies despondently. On a good day, for an average, healthy person, it would be around a four hour walk between here and Five-0 headquarters in Pearl City. When he thinks about how often he'll need to rest to avoid stressing his still tender knee and the possible roadblocks the fleeing have generously left behind that they'll undoubtedly encounter, he adds to the figure.

Silently, Steve reaches out and grasps Danny's hand, giving it a squeeze before climbing out of the car, backpack slung over his shoulders and bat at the ready. Sighing, Danny steels himself and follows suit.

(If he's honest, Danny will admit that it helped a little.)

* * *

"It's official," Danny mutters quietly. "Zombies _suck_." Beside him, Steve glares at him in a way that can either be interpreted as _shut the hell up _or _of course not, you idiot—they bite_. Knowing Steve, he probably means it to be the former but he's definitely thinking the latter. Danny huffs but obeys the silent order. The only thing that sucks more than zombies, after all, is being eaten by them.

On the other hand, in terms of afterlife stories, it marginally beats out dying of thirst while surrounded by water. On the other, other hand… its being eaten alive. Apparently, Danny Williams is not destined to die a good death.

Steve nudges him and shoots him a look that screams _stop thinking stupid things and focus will you Danno?_

Danny waves his hands around in an arbitrary manner attempting convey an _I'm __not__ thinking stupid things and if I __am__, it's all your fault_ message. Steve rolls his eyes because yeah, he gets it.

They travel down Queen's Street at what Danny thinks to be an unnecessarily slow pace. Their steps are slow and sure and quiet as they creep down the sidewalk towards Cummins Street, avoiding the shadows and watching for the giveaway flickers of movement in their peripheral vision.

Danny hates, hates, _hates_ this.

Instinct screams at him to avoid being out in the open, to find cover and stay there, but they can't, not yet, not here, so Danny just bites his lip and ignores it. Ignores the pools of congealed blood he has to step over. Ignores the way these puddles lack actual _bodies _to pool under. Ignores the eerie silence that's replaced the usual sleepy murmurs of downtown life as people prepare for just another day.

He wonders, vaguely, when this all started, wonders _how_ this all started and why, of all places, the island of Oahu was where it had to happen.

(Despite this, though, he's immensely grateful that Grace is not on Oahu right now. Grateful for Stan and his out of country business trips, grateful for Rachel wanting to accompany him, and grateful to himself for giving in to his ex-wife's demands and permitting Grace to go with them even though it's fucking _October_ and there's no reason for her to be going on a mini vacation _now_ of all times. Because Canada, that beautiful frozen wasteland, is far, _far_ away from Oahu and thank God, _thank God_ that at the very least, Grace is safe. If nothing else, his daughter is _safe _and _alive_ and _not in a zombie infested land_ and fuck, he'll put up with the rest of this shit without excessive complaining so long as that notion stays true. _Dear God,_ let it stay true.)

Danny shakes his head in a vain attempt to clear it. It's neither the time nor the place to be thinking these questions. He wants answers but for now, he'll have to wait.

As they walk, Steve covers the right side, glancing into window shops and darkened back alleys warily while Danny watches the left, taking note of the distance between them and the nearest zombies. It's hard for him to find anything to be grateful for when it comes to the living dead but he's glad that, at the very least, the fuckers have terrible eyesight.

(When they'd first gotten out of the car, both he and Steve had been prepared for the zombie Danny had been observing to attack them, especially when it turned and looked directly at them. A nerve-wracking moment had passed between the two of them as the zombie continued to stare in their direction before it turned and progressed with its ambling path.

That was when they learned Zombie 101 lesson two: zombies can't see for shit. Lesson one, of course, had been learned back in Danny's apartment: zombies stop trying to eat you when there's a bullet in their brain. Danny had let out the breath he'd been holding and thought that if all Zombie 101 lessons were going to be like this, it was more likely that he'd die from an anxiety-induced heart attack than an actual zombie.)

There's a teen-aged girl wearing a waitress's uniform across the street stumbling in the opposite direction that has Danny's full wary attention, which is why he almost trips across the body. Thankfully, Steve catches his arm before he can actually fall, yanking him back with enough force that Danny finds himself leaning against Steve's chest.

"Watch it," Steve hisses into his ear, hand still firmly gripping the crook of Danny's elbow. Danny looks up at him, sarcastic response on the tip of his tongue but stops when he notices that Steve's staring perplexedly at the corpse—an older gentleman, hair already a snowy white and glassy, pale blue eyes staring up at the sky. Danny notices that a pair of cracked wireframe glasses lay brokenly on the road no more than an arm's length away. Letting go of Danny, Steve crouches, peering at the corpse intensely.

"What are you _doing_?" Danny whispers, fighting the urge to smack Steve upside the head. "Are you _trying_ to get bitten?"

Steve shakes his head and gestures for Danny to take a nearer examination of the body as well. "Look," he says pointing to the man.

Danny glares at him. "A corpse? Really? Because I hate to break it to you sweetheart, but those aren't all that uncommon during a _zombie apocalypse._"

Steve frowns and grabs an impatient fistful of Danny's shirt, yanking him down until he's awkwardly crouching too. "Just shut up for a second and _look_, won't you? This is important. What, exactly, do you think is _wrong_ with this picture?"

Danny glowers again but looks. All he sees is a dead man missing an ear and whose abdominal cavity has been torn open, intestines pulled out with bits and pieces strewn messily around him. All he sees is the wedding band glinting on the left hand and the broken glasses lying uselessly on the street. All he sees is a tragedy. Batting away Steve's hand he bites out a forceful, "A lot of things. Steve, just… do you really think now is the best time to be doing this? Because if you _do_, then I feel it is of utmost importance for me to fulfil my duty by playing the Spock to your Kirk and point out the illogicality of you deciding to do this now. So let's go, okay? Let's go and you can tell me all about your G.I. Joe epiphany or whatever when we're not standing out in the open."

Steve stares at him. "…Illogicality?"

Danny rolls his eyes. "When this is over," he says, leaning down so that he's muttering heatedly right into Steve's ear, "I'm buying you a fucking dictionary. Remind me: when the zombie apocalypse is over, go to the nearest Barnes and Nobles and invest in a dictionary. If nothing else, I can hit you with it. Now get up and let's _move_, Commander."

Steve scowls but finally, _finally_ rises gracefully to his feet. "I know what illogicality _means_," he points out as his hand once again finds Danny's elbow and Steve begins to drag Danny away.

"Oh yeah?" Danny challenges, pulling slightly in the opposite direction. "Alright hotshot. Care to try your hand at defining 'exasperating'?"

"Sure," Steve agrees amicably, adjusting their pace at Danny's resistance until they're moving at a speed that's makes Steve walk a little slower than usual and forces Danny to walk a little quicker and works perfectly fine for the both of them. "I believe the dictionary says, 'see Danny Williams.'"

Danny makes a face at Steve's cheeky grin. "Smart ass."

"That one's defined as, 'see Steve McGarrett,'" he says with a wink. Danny blows him a raspberry.

(Nothing's changed but Danny feels like the tension's lessened, if only slightly.)

* * *

The windows to the gun shop they find on their way to Ward Ave are barred, but the door has been thrown open, allowing for easy entry into the dark building.

"No," Danny says upon seeing Steve's look.

"_You're_ the one that said you wanted more weaponry," Steve points out, already walking towards the entryway.

"Of course I did. You know what else I said? I also said malasadas count as a valid breakfast food and that hanging a man off a twenty story building is not a proper interrogation technique so you _shouldn't do it_. Did you listen then?"

"I listened," Steve protests. "I just had a differing opinion. And the malasada thing shouldn't count anyway—you agreed that pancakes—"

"Hey, hey, hey! What do you think this is? A conversation? I'm still talking here, buddy, so you'll just have to wait your turn." Steve rolls his eyes but gestures for Danny to continue. "Thank you. So to continue where I left off… no, no you did not listen. So then why, Steve, _why_ are you choosing _now_ of all times to listen? You know what? Don't answer that. Not now anyways. Answer when we're far, _far_ away from the looming, shadowy, ominous looking—"

"Okay, now you're just being overly dramatic," Steve says dryly as he sets the backpack down and searches for the flashlight.

"Excuse me? _Excuse me_?" Danny questions incredulously, and yeah, maybe he is being a little overly dramatic but mostly he wants to not get eaten. "_Overly_… okay, fine. Let's say, for argument's sake, I admit to being slightly exaggerative towards the endangering qualities of the store—"

"Admittance is the first step," Steve pipes in, smiling endearingly in a way that totally makes Danny want to punch him in the face.

"Still talking. So, I admit to slight over dramatization. Then what? What happens next?"

"Then," Steve says slowly, "we both agree that the gun shop is not that bad and since we _both agree_, we go inside. See? Another example of how we make a great team and have a perfectly compatible working relationship."

"Ah. I get it. So that's how it goes, huh? Then I admit _nothing. _I'm not being overly dramatic. I'm being the god damn _voice of reason_. _Have you honestly never seen a horror movie before_? Shady looking building with an ominous looking doorway leading into a dark room—how can you _not_ feel the danger that is obviously radiating from there! It's like the perfect movie cliché for bad things to happen!"

"This isn't a movie, Danno," Steve tells him blandly, flashlight in hand.

"Oh really? It's not? Well, there are _zombies_ in _Hawaii_ of all places, so you'll have to forgive me if my grasp on reality is just a little bit _tenuous_."

"I forgive you," Steve replies solemnly. "We good to go or should I look the other way for a few minutes while you have a supposedly internal monologue outlining all your nefarious plots?"

"You're fucking hilarious. A real stand-up comedian in the making. No, I think I'm ready. I guess I'll, reluctantly mind you, follow you into the menacing abode since I know the beauty of Shakespeare will just be lost on you, you unappreciative cretin. Oh but Steve," Danny says, snagging the back of Steve's shirt just before they enter, "when this all goes to hell? I reserve the right to say 'I told you so.'"

Steve snorts and clicks on the flashlight. "Sure, Danno."

* * *

_tbc..._


End file.
